Presence
by His Little LabRat
Summary: Greg and Nick are demon hunters who grew up fighting these demons, searching for the demon that had killed both Nick adn Greg's parents. Lately, Greg has given up on fighting to live with his girlfriend, Kari. But, when Kari is killed... who knows. NG fic
1. The Nightmare Begins

Thanks to: Katlynn888 for beta-ing my story (and helping me name characters and final the title!) and my iPod, for supplying music that gave me inspiration (and YouTube too!)

Author's note(s): Hey! I really hope you all enjoy this story, that I've called "Presence." I hope it is okay… PLEASE read & review, it'd be much appreciated. The song/lullaby that Nick sings(NOT made by me!) is "Love Me, Love Me" by Arsenium.

* * *

He slinked his small feet over the edge of the bed, letting them hang over the side of his bed. The shadows in the room curled as a gentle breeze blew in through the open window, moving the dead leaves that hung off their brown branches that swayed in the wind. He curled up his feet and reaches over to pull out a drawer in the nightstand beside the headboard of his bed next to himself. He pulls out a pair of long, white socks silently, and then quietly shuts the drawer. He takes one sock from the muddled pair, and leans over the edge of his tall bed. He takes the one sock and hangs it in the air for a moment, letting it sway, watching the moving shadow of the sock of his floor. He drops it and swings back over the edge, ducking away under the sheets of his bed. After a minute or so, he peers out from the covers and worms his way to the edge of the mattress once more. Peering over the edge, he squints against the darkness to see the same, long white tube sock on the floor, lying inanimate in the shadows of the deep night. He raises his eyebrows in quirk and sits back up, shuffling under the covers for the other white tube sock.

Picking up the sock, he throws the covers off him, careful not to throw them onto the floor. Leaning back over to the nightstand, he takes out more pairs of socks, and, with each pair, stuffs them into the other half of the tube sock pair. With the second sock full, he latches his tiny fingers onto the end of the tube sock, curling his fingers around the nape of the neck to hold it steady in his little hands. Leaning back over the edge, he slowly lowers the sock to the floor, being sure to keep the end of the long neck in his small fingertips. Shadows dance on the floor and he tenses. 

After a minute had passed, he smiled in victory and dropped the sock to the floor. Shadows curled and skipped around on the walls, and tenses once more, fingertips gripping the white, clean fine cloth of the bed sheets he sat on. Silence settles in and the only sounds are that of his ever faint breaths and the gentle breeze blowing up his curtains and ruffling the leaves on the now deep brown branches that they hung upon. His grip on the disheveled sheets loosened and his shoulders slowly settled, his shoulder blade resting back onto his smooth, pale back, his eyes adjusting out of his petrified state of mind.

He slowly rolls over the edge of the large bed, slipping slowly down as his shirt ride up against his stomach and back, eyes down at the floor as he pushed down to the floor. The wind made the socks swivel and move softly and he instantly scrambles back up onto the bed. Looking at the floor, glancing to the window, he realizes that it was only the wind.

He stands up on the bed and strides backwards, gliding his feet to watch for the edge of the bed. He swallows silently, and braces himself, licking his lips, eyes on the doorway, his destination of thought. He begins to run and pushes himself hard off the edge of the bed, flying through the air like a bat against the night sky, knowing the shadows can't reach him now.

Rolling onto the floor, his feet hits an edge that his recognizes perfectly and he smiles to himself in victory, knowing he had won. He sits up and diligently but hastily brushes himself off. He stands up and curls his fingers around the familiar cool of the brass doorknob, turning and flinging it open quickly to escape the darkness of the bedroom he was in. Opening the door without a sound, he found himself staring into the darkness he that consumed his phobic thoughts. Stricken, he turned his to the side swiftly, staring to the _very_ familiar door that had been his destination, his escape route, his itinerary to safety, the door.

Turning his head back to the darkness, seeing something in the depths of what he recalls as his closet, the shadows taking a form that could only haunt his and the worst nightmares of all mankind. He lets out a stifling scream of fear when its hand reaches out for him. But, his scream can't escape his mouth, and he can't even begin to open his mouth. Mind whirling and making him move from the deathly aura, he instinctively rolls back on his heels to run and run screaming, but he slips from sheer trepidation and falls back on himself, crumpling up against the wall behind him. The hand lowers instantly and wraps itself around him, fingertips curling around his ankle and pulling him with unimaginable force towards the shadows. He struggles under its grasp and he swivels as it begins to draw him backward, he rolls onto his stomach and claws at the floor desperately. Kicking and shuffling, trying to scream without breath, he kicks back on the hand and the hand flinches on his ankle, and after his split-second reaction he scrambles forward. Clambering up, his fingertips touch the edge of the doorway and he jostles upright with a fury of feet and clenching hands looking for support to help him up. 

Suddenly, he is tumbling forward and falling over in his scramble to break free from whatever –it-was-from-the-darkness, he latches onto the banister and turns back, looking at his doorway at the end of the hall. All he can see is darkness, until the hand reaches out for him. His feet scramble for traction on the floor boards as he began stumbling back to run. Swinging instinctively into a doorway at the opposite end of the hall, he slams the door shut behind him without a sound and hardly a movement. 

He is staring forward with dilated eyes and with his heart beating furiously against his tiny chest, he sees a figure in the bed across from him so familiar that he heartbeat instantly slows to it's normal rate, and his eyes contract as not to let so much unkempt light into his eyes. He walked in a speed-walk to the bed, standing feet from the edge, not able to see over to look at the silhouette that he had seen from the doorway anymore. He bent over slowly and scooted closer to the bed as his palms pressed to the rug beneath the bed frame, looking into the abyss. There was nothing there and he sat up onto his knees. Standing up, he turned and looked over the edge to the silhouette on the bed, under those obviously warm blankets and once cold sheets, said silhouette of a boy just slightly older then he, so familiar and unique to him.

Smiling at the figure, he felt a cold breeze along his toes. He crouched over once more and stared into the abyssal shadows that went "bump in the night" in all children's' nightmares.

"What are you doing?" Someone asked in a slightly angry but whispered voice. His head instantly shot up and skimmed the frame of the bed, and would have ruptured the skin if he were closer, forehead barely skimming the skirt of the bed as he sat erect now, whipping his head around to see a tall, familiar silhouette lurking in the doorway into the room. Said silhouette leaned against the doorway, awaiting his answer.

"Checking for monsters," he answered in his soft voice, but not necessarily a whisper in voice.

"Greg, really, under Nick's bed?" The man in the doorway asked, raising an eyebrow at the three-year old Greg sitting in front of said Nick's bed.

"Hey! One grabbed me out of the closet!" Greg whispered, his voice rising into a speaking voice. "They could be anywhere!" Greg was serious, but he couldn't hinder the smile on his lips. The man in the entrance to the room chuckled silently, but he could tell he was laughing at him. "I'm not kidding, I thought it was gonna eat me!"

"Yeah, monsters are real and my name is Jillian Stokes!" He laughed at Greg in a whisper from the doorway.

"Jillian?" Greg asked. "That's Nick's mum's name, your wife! Your name is Bill Stokes, you big dummy!" Greg spit his tongue out playfully. "And your son's name is Nick!"

"Gee, can't get anything past you, can we, Greg?" Bill rolled his eyes at Greg, who simply smiled sheepishly and childishly. 

Bill started towards Greg and then bent over to pick him up, wrapping his arms around Greg's sides, hands curling around his sides, and Greg couldn't help but extort a little, almost silent giggle when Bill's fingers poked into the tender flesh on his sides, lifting him up to the point where his hip was on Bill's chest, Greg's feet hanging down till they pointed at the ground. Bill looked from Greg to Nick, and then Greg followed his gaze to his brother-figure.

Nick was under the sheets, curled into a peaceful sleep, black and deep auburn tinted hair curling over his forehead and over his eyes, delicious chocolate colored eyes closed into sub-consciousness. 

"Well," Bill whispered into Greg's ear, eyes still on his son, Nick. "We need to let Nick sleep, better not to disturb him." Greg simply nodded and rested his chin on Bill's shoulder as Bill turned to leave; now feeling his own eyelids getting heavy.

Bill entered Greg's room and patted out the sheets before setting Greg down on the bed. He rolled the untamed sheets over the sleepy three year old. Bill turned to leave the room, but Greg let out a little whine when Bill's right foot turned with him to face the door. 

"Check for monsters?" Greg asked from beneath the sheets. Bill was about to tell Greg monsters didn't exist when he felt something on his foot. He jumped slightly, and then looked down to see what it was. He bent down to pick it up, rolling his eyes at Greg when he noticed he was holding a pair of white tube socks – one filled with other pairs of socks and the other with nothing but itself and space. He looked up to Greg with his eyes, keeping his head in the same position. Greg smiled sheepishly, and then tucked his nose under the end of the covers, gripping the ends in his fingers. "Please, Billiam?" Greg whimpered. Bill sighed and reached over to put the socks on the nightstand beside Greg's headboard. 

"Monsters aren't real, Greg," Bill sighed as he lifted up the bed skirt and stared into the abyss of shadows under the bed.

"Oh yeah?" Greg asked challengingly.

"Yeah," Bill answered, standing up.

Greg glanced at his father-figure. "Then what in the name of Friedrich Miescher lives in my closet, hmm, Billiam?" Bill turned to the closet by the door. The doors were open and after studying the shadows, he reached up to the doorknob to close the closet doors when something tangled around ankle, that which felt like fingertips. He jumped slightly when the fingertips curled and uncurled. Petrified, he looked down slowly to his feet. He sighed in relief and bent down to pick it up.

"Greg, it was just a scarf," Bill said and started over to Greg. Greg was silent. "See?" Bill said, holding up the scarf, realizing the tied-off knots at the end were the "fingertips." He looked at Greg when he didn't respond. "It was probably blowing in the wind and tangled around your ankle." Greg was silent, not saying a single word. Suddenly, Bill's heart began to pound in his chest and he didn't know why he felt frantically nervous. He took a step towards the three year old, bending over to squat to look at him. Now, Bill saw that the once fearful Greg was now in a harmonious sleep. Bill gave a silent sigh of relief, and then began silently toward the door, his steps silenced by his gentle touch on the floorboards.

He stepped up to the staircase and saw a small, looming silhouette in the doorway at the opposite end of the hall from Greg's room, the silhouette only about a half a foot taller than Greg. Bill smiled at the profile, watching as the figure stepped into the dim light emanating from the street light far outside the window.

It was Nick; the six year old dressed in a black tank top and deep green cargo pants that he had slept in.

Slowly, one of Nick's hands rose from his side to his stomach, gripping the black cloth that practically engulfed it, squeezing his hand into a tight grasp around the cloth, fingernails digging into the tender flesh, harsh eyes on his father Bill.

"You sick, Poncho?" Bill asked, stepping forward to put a cold hand to Nick's warm forehead. Nick simply batted his hand away with a shake of his head.

"No," Nick said silently, voice masked by an emotion Bill wished Nick would never have to endure. "I feel like I am in a bad movie…" Bill stared into Nick's eyes and they were wide with the same feeling that was covering his voice. "One where everyone dies."

Bill was about to tell Nick something when he heard a sound clattering up from downstairs. Bill turned his head to Nick, who was only gripping his stomach tighter, fingernails digging deeper into the soft flesh of his stomach. Bill lifted a finger and pointed at Nick, then at the floor, indicating for Nick to stay where he was. Then, Bill pressed the finger to his lips, adding a little "shh" noise to Nick.

Bill quietly whipped around and then started onto the first step. Pausing, he glanced back at Nick. Nick's eyes were on him, then his eyes darted to Greg's room and he took a step onto the old, rickety floorboards. The polished, old boards groaned in coincidental silence and Bill narrowed his eyes at Nick in command. Bill noticed Nick stopped in his movement under his father's demanding glare, the only sign now that time hadn't stopped as it was that Nick's chest was faintly rising and falling as much as his father's.

Bill loped the corner, staring now into the artificial yellow light that illuminated the hallway. The lights began to flicker ill rhythmically. Suddenly, the light above Bill's head sparked and shook itself angrily; falling before him and plunging him back into the nightly darkness.

Gulping down fears, he reared back slightly and grabbed the baseball bat that Nick and Greg had left in the front hall earlier that day, now yesterday morning. Scooting without echo back into the hallway, he padded around the shards of glass, looking from his feet to the glass behind him then into his eye's target, his destination that his feet took his to, bat firmly in his hands as a shadow rushed before the end of the hall without stopping. His eyes widened and he scooted before a corner, clinging to the wall, craning his neck to look around the corner.

Empty, except for the typical household accommodations of the Stokes family – plus one Sanders.

Gripping the bat once more in his finger for a tighter hold, he began forward. Turning side to side frantically as he stepped into the kitchen, looking for things he hadn't been able to see from the corner.

Something clicked and he drew in a breath quickly, tensing. Forcing his shoulders to relax, he looked to his feet without moving his head. He looked for a shadow, but only saw the whispering movement of the trees in the gentle nightly winds and his own darkness on the white tiles of the floor.

After scoping out the first level of the two-level house, he slipped into the front hall, bouncing silently over to the staircase. At the top of the staircase now, he looked around the empty hall, but he didn't see his son. Now, he thought that Nick went to bed. He bent over and laid down the bat quietly next to the banister.

Bill gave a hefty sigh and stepped slowly down the hallway, floorboards of perfect stained, old wood creaking in protest beneath his every step of his two pale toned feet. He ran a hand through his 

hair as a feeling of nauseous silliness ran through his gut, giving him the sensation that made him want to laugh and scream, but when he opened his mouth, instead came out a cry that was a distorted sigh.

His eyes flitted open and he noticed the artificial illumination that emanated out from under a door at the end of the hallway, opposite from Greg's. He tilted his head to the side slowly, gently cocking it to the side, and then forced his head erect as he paused in step, then proceeding to follow the light that dusted the floorboards in the night.

Resting his fingertips on the dim glitter of the doorknob, his heart thundered so hard he thought it'd rip itself from his chest. Pressing his fingertips tighter around the knob, he began to spin the knob into the room, but not just any room – his and Jillian's room.

When the hatch clicked out of the doorway, he swung the door open into a dark room that was lit only by the sky with a simple, silent _swish._ But, his eyes met the familiar darkness of the night that made a child's stomach whir with fear. But what made his stomach whir was the unkempt sheet of the empty bed before him… which weren't supposed to be empty.

His eyes darted around the room, studying it's familiarity with steady, quick precision, looking for the memorable silhouette of his wife Jillian. However, his eyes only caught darkness and solemn, dancing shadows on the wall.

Bill gave a mental sigh and turned around to look for his wife-

Nick stood behind his father, before him now, just outside the doorway, looking at his father with defiant eyes that were as set as his feet on the floor that ran a shiver down Bill's spine; who jumped back as he saw Nick unexpectedly.

Bill's heart thudded against his chest, the squirm in his stomach fading and untangling itself as realization drug Nick into his father's retinas and mind, relief flooding into his heart.

"Jesus, Nick!" Bill whispered. His hand was over his heart and he could feel it throbbing against his chest under his palm, chest rising and falling slowly to force himself to calm down. "Where did you go?" 

"Sorry…" he thought he heard Nick mumble, and if he did, he didn't pause to take a breath. "I was just checking up on Greg," he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb to the opposite end of the hall. "He was a asleep and so I sat down with him for a while and then I heard something, and it was you, so…" he trailed off with an almost-shrug.

Bill gave a hefty breath at the answer and stepped to the side and when Nick looked past him and demanded entry. Nick stepped in and stood inside the room now, before the doorway, glancing around at the blue nightly light that filtered in from the sky through the window and the shadows that Bill had memorized so many times over. "Where's ma?" Nick asked as the shadows swayed over him, meaning the clouds had swarmed over the moon, the deep royal blue taking it's place among the shadows.

"I don't know. I was going to look for her, but…" he was cut off by something warm dripping onto his right cheek. He flinched back from it, pressing his eyes shut momentarily, until it dripped on his cheek again and the temptation to look up at the ceiling pitted in his stomach. He raised his eyes up from Nick, who was looking in the bathroom for his mother, to the ceiling slowly. The ceiling dripped onto him again and he had to blink it away from his eyelid before he could open his eyes once more.

Upon the ceiling lay the silhouette of a woman, a woman that Bill had memorized many, many times over and over and could be none other than his wife… Jillian.

Shadows danced and swayed and began to manifest upward and into a face, a torso, taking on a human shape very slowly as Bill's eyes settled upon it. The lights began to flicker on and off and Bill lunged over to grab Nick's arm, but he couldn't reach.

He looked up to the ceiling as the lights flickered on and suddenly, flames roared up from Jillian's sides, catching her dress, the flames illuminating her face and the deep gash that ran deep across her neck. But, with one last sparing glance at his wife, the flames engulfed her completely and exploded outward around her.

Bill ducked out of the way of a burning plank as he lunged over his son, picking him up quickly. Nick hadn't noticed the fire until Bill scooped him up and bolted instantly for the doorway.

Nick stared wide-eyed at his father as Bill put him quickly down on the floor just outside the room, in front of the banister and gave him a good shake to take Nick's eyes of the roaring flames behind his father.

"Get Greg and run like…" his father was cut off by a manifested shadow that pressed against him in it's cool presence and muffled, fiery breath down his neck, driving it's hand upward into the night air and then ramming it directly through Bill's back, bringing the whole hand out the other side of Bill's chest so Nick could see the shadow's wrist. Nick wanted to let out a blood-curdling scream but he couldn't because it caught in his throat as blood poured out from Bill's lips, his bottom lip quivering as Bill tried to get his last words out, "_hell is after you…_" his father let out and then his eyes grew desolate, his lips losing movement altogether.

Nick's feet flew along the floor, trying to escape the shadow lurking behind his father in it's distorted, disturbed aura, whilst trying to dodge the other shadows on the floor, the ever-growing shadows that tangled his steps, his father's last words playing a continuous loop in his head, saying, "_hell is after you… hell is after you…_"

Running too fast, he slid to a stop and began to fumble on his feet, scrabbling for traction on his feet. Latching his hands on the inside of Greg's doorway, he pulled himself quickly into the room and onto the cool of the floorboards of Greg's room that he could feel through his socks.

Greg's bed sat directly next to a window and Nick took advantage of that swiftly. All in the same movement, he jumped up onto Greg's bed, curling Greg into his arms against his chest, jumping off the edge of the bed and cracking open the window with a jumped head butt, and bursting out into the night air.

Greg let out a scream as he woke in mid-air, letting the scream become muffled as it hit Nick's palm over his mouth, his gut doing flips in his stomach as they fell down, curly blond-brown hair whipping back onto Nick's chest as they flew through the cold night, only to land amongst the flowing branches of a bush far beyond the window.

Nick landed on his back, having done a flip in the air, feet hanging loosely in the air far above him, head close to the ground, as he uncurled himself to look at the Greg in his arms. He smiled softly at the three year old in his arms, showing his teeth slightly, and feeling blood from his cheek dribble into his mouth. Greg lifted his head after Nick removed his hand form his mouth and eyed him with question that Nick knew the answer to, but couldn't answer aloud.

Nick's eyes looked over his now flaming house and took in a breath softly, tucking Greg in closer, pressing his nose into Greg's hair to take in his sweet scent and calm the three year old of a brother figure, then, after taking in another breath, he began to sing the same lullaby Greg's mother had sung to him before she had died when Greg was only two years old, along with his father.

"When you're lonely in the night,

I'll be near to hold you tight.

If you ever want to cry,

I'll be there to kiss your eyes!

Every night I'll whisper from my heart to you,

All those words of love, you're never gonna cry.

Every night I'll hold you in the moonlight,

You ain't never gonna cry,

I would never make you cry…"

The flames roared, and sirens rang in the now distance form the bush they lay in and Nick felt a tear in his eye, but he knew he had to comfort Greg more than himself.

"If you let me in your heart,

We will never be apart…

Leave your world and come with me,

Only love can set us free!

Every night I'll whisper from my heart to you,

All those words of love, you're never gonna cry.

Every night I'll hold you in the moonlight,

You ain't never gonna cry,

I would never make you cry…"


	2. Goodnights and Goodbyes

_**Author's Note(s): Again, the song/lullaby thing is "Love Me, Love Me" by Arsenium (lyrics changed and skipped, please note!) . I'm sorry for the slow updates, I write each chapter during math class, so it takes a while… sorry again, and I hope you enjoy! (Please Read and Review/ R&R!)**_

_--_

_Greg struck awake, shaking the bed he lay in as he burst into an upward position. His breath came in heavy pants and his heart thrummed as fire revealed itself to his irises and he swore he could smell the flames scorch his brain. Pressing his eyes shut, he held his breath. Opening his eyes again, he looked around himself, hands clamped onto the sheets, eyes only meeting darkness. He swiveled his head to a slim, long profile that lay beside him that always seemed to make his heart pound against his chest. Taking in a deep breath of cool night air, he leaned over to the left a little to peek over the edge to watch the immobile shadows. He rolled his feet over the edge of the bed and stood up, walking up to the window and prodding his fingertips of the image of the house across the street, a house that he knew as well as his own, and just his fingertips on it's reflection in the window sending comfort to his every pore. Tearing his eyes away from the house across the street, he looked over to the figure that lay in the bed behind him, thinking of the person the shape beheld, his girlfriend, Kari, with a smile. Turning back around, he began to unwontedly tap the toes of his left foot to the beige carpet, the tips of his toes running on each beige fiber, feeling the tingle and creep of RLS crawl and scavenge it's way up his legs in a cold and burning grip. He began his way around the room, trying to rid himself of the redundant sensation, watching the curl of shadows over his girlfriend and on the walls, eyes darting to the window to look at the illustration of the other house every so often. However, he decided after ten minutes that wasn't enough to satisfy the consciousness of tingles in his legs that made it feel like ants inside of him._

_He started towards the doorway with a shirt on now; only turning back once with his hand on the doorway, eyes on Kari, but then started out once more._

_The moon shone overhead and beat down on him with once-glittering stars at its side, which were now blacked out by the infamous Vegas shimmer. Beyond this distance, he could see the lights blur and dot the black horizon of the night, casting flickering shadows on rooftops and buildings around themselves that always made his stomach roll for known reasons, that always made him jump every time a fleeting shadow curled under him._

_With each footstep, Greg watching his footsteps, he slowly stepped onto log, twisting roots of an oak tree that was cold to the touch and thick with age. He presses his palm to the tree, feet tracing along their usual course, circling around its large trunk. He came to an eye among the high branches and stepped up onto it with a jump. Knob after knob he rose, until his fingers caught on a thick branch that he pulled himself up onto gradually. It was an entanglement of thick branches that didn't spread more than half an inch apart, with other branches set between them to create a branch more than five feet thick._

_Prodding his fingers along the all-too-nostalgic bark, he pulled up and carefully made his way across to the middle of the entwined branches, sitting back against the trunk that arched backwards to create more of a lounge position for him, looking out across the opening in the branches to the blue-black sky far beyond his fingertips._

_His legs were no longer bothered him, and he thought it time to head back home, but his legs refused to move, his eyes shutting slowly as his vision hazed with what he could see and the blackness that lay behind his eyelids…_

_--_

_The rain pattered down on their heads as their feet swiped quickly up and then down again on the concrete. Hand in hand they ran, house after house they passed, step after step they took._

_The taller boy in lead slowed and came to a stop, the smaller, blond boy in tow with him. He looks to the smaller boy and smiles, even as the rain catches on his eyelashes and curls his black hair over his forehead in little, wet clumps. The smaller boy gives a smile too, his green eyes shimmering in the golden moonlight that filtered through his golden hair, eyes alighting with the image of the taller boy in front of him. The taller boy let go of the littler hand, and the younger boy still had his hand raised to meet the bigger hand, still awaiting its presence back in his own. The little boy's mouth opened a little and the taller boy managed a laugh as the little boy blinked at him. He bent down and wrapped his arms around the familiar, frail frame and hoisted him up to his chest. The smaller boy obliged to the taller's hold on him instantly, resting his cheek on the older boy's. The little boy moved his hands to the older boys without moving his head from its position, only moving his eyes as he watched his hands. The older boy gave a little nuzzled and the little boy blinked, eyes moving from his hand on the other boy's to attempt to look at the older boy's face without moving his head but was unsuccessful._

_The little boy's eyes were bloodshot, red and swollen and he closed them, not question the older boy on where they were or where they were going. He closed his eyes as he listened to the steady, slow thrum of the older boy's heart, feeling the faint rise and fall of the older boy's chest as he started off walking once more._

_After a minute or so, the older then whispered, "I need to put you down now."_

"_No," the younger boy mumbled, eyes still closed._

"_Can you let go for one minute so I can put you down?"_

"_No," the younger said, pressing his eyes tighter shut, giving the faintest shake of his head._

"_Please?" The older gave a soft plead to the whisper. "I can pick you back up in a minute, I promise."_

"_No," the smaller said again, sticking his tongue out even though he knew the other boy couldn't see it._

"_Why?"_

"_No," he whispered again._

_The other boy whispered something incoherent around the lines of, "that's not an answer…" but after that, drew in a deep breath. "Is that all you know how to say?" The younger boy thought about it for a minute, then sat up in the older boy's arms and gave his a look. "Is that a trick question?" The voice was soft and childish, as he was. The other boy imitated his look and gave a shake of his head, looking up at the younger boy form the top of his eyes, pursing his lips as he shook his head, then straightened up to kiss the younger boy's hair with a laugh as the younger stuck his tongue out at him. He bent over and put the little boy down, and then he bent over so the little boy could get on his back. "You can get back on, but I won't be able carry you, it's all you, little man. Oh, and I hope you like trees." The little boy nodded. "Good. Now, hop on, little man."_

_With the little boy on his back and practically hanging on for dear life, the older boy started up the tree, one foot on one knob of the tree after another, until his hands met the thick branch he had been eyeing for the past few minutes on the large oak tree. Now, standing on a thick entwine of branches, he let the younger boy down from his back. Putting his hand back in the smaller boy's, they started carefully on the thick branches to the center that arched backward into a lounge with an opening in the leaves to the sky beyond at the end, the older boy sitting down and letting the smaller crawl onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around the little boy, letting the smaller boy nuzzle into him, the sound of rain dripping onto fresh, live leaves in the night air sounding now far-gone to the boys._

_The older boy listened to his mind scramble, fighting back to urge to let out a soft, long forgotten sob. Instead, he began to sing softly to the younger boy and himself._

_When you're lonely in the night,I'll be near to hold you tight.If you ever want to cry,I'll be there to kiss your eyes. _

_Every night, I'll whisper from my heart to you,All the words of love, and you're never gonna cry...Every night, I will hold you in the moonlight,_

_You ain't ever gonna cry,I will never make you cry._

_If you let me in your heart,We will never be apart.Leave your world and come with me,Only love can set me free! _

_Every night, I'll whisper from my heart to you,All the words of love, and you're never gonna cry...Every night, I will hold you in the moonlight,You ain't ever gonna cry,I will never make you cry…"_

_The older boy bit his lip, not sure what to sing next, as he finished the song. His thoughts seemed to be echoed by the pattering rain, and he looked down to the little boy that was pressed against him._

"_Nick?" The little boy asked in a whisper, cheek to his shoulder and collar bone, eyes out on the rain that was glittering with light from the moon and the far beyond street lamps._

"_Yes, Greggo?" Nick whispered back to him, gaze shifting from Greg in his lap to the rain beyond._

"_Is love real?" To this, Nick didn't know how to respond. He blinked once, thinking slightly angrily, __how should I know? I'm only six._ But, he shook that thought from his head even though he was practically immobile. "Love is real." Nick said, pressing his lips to Greg's ear, his nose to his hair, not for a kiss, just for support.

"Love is real," Greg repeated after him.

The rain pattered in the distance, and echoed all around them, rattling through the air and all around, and just seemed to never end in the night…

--

Greg's eyes slowly opened, the haze seeming to flutter away by the wind that swayed the leaves that were hidden among the darkness. He watched the leaves as the danced on the horizon of the black sky, knowing he'd forgotten something through the haze of his dreams.

His eyes snapped open as he recalled his life outside of the past, remembering that he left home for a _short_ walk around the neighborhood.

He scrambled down the tree and as he met the sidewalk under his feet, he cautiously brushed himself off, letting the leaves sway about in the gentle breeze as he swiped them from his clothes, starting off on a quick pace once more with a run in his step-walk, as not to look to suspicious as he already was, curse reputations as it were.

His eyes were glued to the house across the street from his, his chocolate eyes only tearing away from it when the soles of his shoes met the edge of his driveway. His eyes clung to the illumination that gassed through a window on the second story, a room he knew only as his own, as if the light were his lifeline against the darkness and swaying shadows of the abyssal night.

_Maybe Kari is up, _he thought to himself as he started towards the front door, hands scurrying in his back pockets for the single key he knew by heart, only to find his fingers curling around the only key in his pocket to the house across the street. He sighed to himself as he placed his fingertips against the inanimate, cold doorknob to his home, now imagining himself in some old soap opera where when he got inside, Kari would call to him, _"Gregory, you got some 'splainin' to do!"_

"Hey," someone called and he turned around to see a nostalgic profile standing in the middle of his driveway, cold, white hot breath circling the figure in the cold air against the yellow light of a far off streetlamp. 

"'Lo," Greg called softly back as the person started towards him, chocolate color beginning to ascend to his luscious eyes, black hair curling over his forehead as the wind brushed against the person's forehead.

As the person was about one foot from him, the hands on the man dug through his denim pockets for something, pulling out a bronze key to hand dangle in the air. "Looking for this, Greggo?"

"Yeah… I am," Greg said, his white breath circling his own face. The man jingled the keys and Greg gave him a look of disbelief. "No… Nick, you didn't!"

Nick simply laughed, dimples arising in his cheeks that made Greg stare in disbelief at them and the fact that his brother-figure had his keys… _again!_ "You're right," Nick said in laugh. "I didn't." Greg simply watched him in awe as Nick brushed him aside and stuck the key in the lock, twisting after the other keys were jingled down and away. "These are the spare keys you gave me when you moved in," Nick explained as he fidgeted with the key, and finally produced a fogged _clink_ from the stubborn gears inside of the lock. Nick smiled to himself and pushed the door open, stepping aside and bowing, gesturing in for Greg to head in first like a polite butler to his master's accommodations, saying, "your chariot awaits, _madam." _Greg stepped in and swiped Nick off, rolling his eyes as he said his "thank you, _sir,_" which was dripping with sarcasm, only to be answered by Nick's throwing him a wink as he followed him inside.

Greg made him way up the staircase, watching shadows curl and dance on the wall, teasing and fleeting glances and smirks to him in the shades of blue and black and then flitting away to hide once again amongst the sovereign light. His chocolate eyes glanced from his steps to the flitting shadows, watching them as they twisted and curled under his feet, sending images of illusions scorching through his mind. Nearing the top of the staircase, he swallowed back tricks from his past, turning around to look over his shoulder at his brother-figure, only to find his brother-figure's gaze on him, following his movements up the stairwell. He turned back and carried on, hearing the gentle creak of the staircase as his sibling-figure's feet followed his own groans of the staircase upward. 

Greg roped around the banister at the top, looking down to the end of the hall, watching clusters of filtering light float out from under the door. Greg's heartbeat seemed slow as his fingers lifted to rest upon the doorknob, feeling Nick's presence loom over him with the aura of the idea that Greg had had earlier, "_Gregory, you got some 'splainin' to do!"_ which made Greg want to laugh and throw up all at once as a copper smell drifted into his nostrils with the intensity of the flames in the pits of hell. Blinking and shaking his head gentle, he curled his fingers around the knob of the door, pushing forward after a click in the hatch. 

Staring into darkness of his bedroom, he stood in the doorway with Nick beside him, looming behind him, taking in the sudden darkness of the room that had thought alit. Greg's fingers slipped from the doorknob and fell to his side, blinking in the image of the empty bed and furnishings before him. He stepped into the room and looked around himself, seeing nothing but the dull and dim furnishings that glazed blue and black under twisting shadows that mocked his ever-coming questions and the single Nick Stokes that stood in the doorway. A coppery smell drifted into his nose once more and he tried shaking it from his mind, only to find it stronger than before. He looked to his adoptive-brother in the doorway, blinking in the darkness as Nick's eyes clung to the ceiling, mouth hanging slightly open. Greg was about to look up when something dripped onto his eyelid, and as he blinked it away, seeing and feeling a red film form over his eye, blinking it away in a slow process. A shadow lay upon the ceiling, seeming to mock his every essence in the blue-black darkness of the deep night.

His lungs became a vivid ocean of storms, breaths washing over too quickly for him to move, because, upon the ceiling, lay the love of his life - Kari. He opened his mouth to let out a squealing cry, watching Kari's white satin nightgown slowly burst into an orange tinge, flames licking at the red gash across her neck as her hands, hair, and everything lay plastered to the ceiling, the ash brushing the ceiling and expanding the flames in their mocking disgrace of darkness. Hands rushed out to grab him as shadows danced and laughed, their mockery manifesting into one circle around him, pulling him out and making a run for it.

He was still in shock before he noticed he was in Nick's arms as Nick jumped off the top floor from over the banister to the main floor in the hall as the flames burst in timely down the hall, blazing in fury after the too as cold winds whipped across their faces as the front door whipped open in a lash as sirens rang out in the distance, the flames dancing up quickly around the house, engulfing it in a roaring gush of light in the black sky, smoke beginning to pillar upward to haze the moon amongst the already black clouds. 

Greg's eyes still clung to the flaming house even as Nick ran farther and farther from it, still holding the blond in his arms as he sprinted across the street.

Night's are for "goodbyes," not "goodnights" because nights only withhold evil.


	3. Of Pretty Women and Shadows

**Author's note(s): About the reference to babies coming from the ant farm. When I was younger, we had a big fishbowl/aquarium in my living room. I, one day, asked my mom and dad where babies come from. My dad simply told me, "from the fishbowl, honey," so everyday I sat by the fishbowl, and every evening I'd tell my parents, "none today, mum, da." But, Grissom wouldn't own fish, because they'd eat his bugs. So, I made it the ant farm instead. I can see him doing the same thing as me, sitting by the ant farm/fishbowl each day, then at evening, saying, "none today," and then going to sleep. I mean, hey, we (Greg, in reference, and I) were like five. :**

**Oh, and the car I image Nick having (by the way, I see this story as semi-present, more like 1985-ish? But, it's an AU story, so whatever…) a 1963 Chevy Bel Air… black of course. Oh, by the way, when Greg/Nick is talking about Nick/Greg, I started to say "brother" as a synonym of their names (pronoun, whatever. .; ) because I have gotten tired of saying "brother-figure" and it sounded awkward to say it a lot, and at all.**

**I could TOTALLY see this story as a show… that'd be freaking sweet, man. 333... Especially if Eric Szmanda and George Eads could play Nick and Greg, and then just change the character names and yada-yada… 333.**

**Oh yeah! I'm sorry if I am a bit contradictory, because I have officially locked myself in my basement to finish this dang chapter and am WAY too lazy to recall what color I put for their eyes, or the hairstyle they have, so if YOU catch something contradictory to itself, just tell me, and I'll go back and edit it. Thanks!**

**Disclaimer(s): The BEGINNING of the Supernatural plot (demon, blah blah) and CSI do NOT belong to me, but this story, however does… but MOST of the characters are now owned by myself. **

**THANKS FOR READING! (Sorry, LONG author's note, huh? Oh well.)**

**_ALL MISTAKES ARE MINE AND WILL BE EDITED LATER!!_**

* * *

Greg's eyes stared blankly into the pooling cup of coffee, watching the faint brown ripples as he tapped his fingers against the starch mug, the far-gone expression on his face unchanging, even as distorted shadows curled on walls, slipping under the table to mock him and hide away from the distant streetlights that flashed in through the bleak windows so faintly.

Nick stepped into the doorway, watching the shadows curl under his brother-figure's seat, wrapping around his sense-less ankles, unfeeling to the changes in his depressant state of mind. Nick hated that fact that Greg knew this would happen, but would continue to mope and wallow in his state and stare at that damned gold band on his ringer finger of his left hand, twisting it around occasionally to watch it gleam in the feeble light of streetlamps in the distances beyond the windows. It's your own damn fault.

Twisting the gold band on the palm of his left hand, Greg begins out loud in faint whispers of sorrow, "We were engaged," he mumbled silently to himself, repeating slightly louder and once more for reference, "Engaged."

"It's your own damn fault," Nick said aloud to his brother-figure from the doorway. Greg looked up to his Texan brother-figure, watching him with desolate, cold eyes that Nick had always thought he knew, mouthing gibberish that Nick couldn't catch from the fringe of the doorway. "You knew this would happen; it always does. And you know damn well that it does every time." Greg swallowed hard, listening to his best friend's harsh words of blame lie directly in front of him, seeping beneath him like poison in a victim of a blood ridden situation of fate and far-gone loss of words and breaths. "You should fucking know that."

"We were engaged, Nick…" Greg started, but Nick's churn up of revolt began again at Greg.

"It doesn't fucking matter! You know this damn well and I thought you would have stopped by now, you idiot!" Nick hated the fury that fury that dripped from his voice, but his outraging tirade couldn't come to an end. "You know that when you come into contact and become "affectionate" towards anyone who doesn't know how to protect themselves against those damned demons damn well will die! Yet, you continue, and I don't see why!" Greg's eyes were wide with fear, and as Nick's rage ceased it's bargain at words, Greg's eyes shifted down to the gold band in his hand, fingers gripped around the stark mug of coffee between his fingertips. He stood slowly, the darkness slinking it's gesture of shadows engulf his face, darkening the distance in his eyes as they pooled the reflection of black-brown from the coffee.

Greg wrapped his fist over the gold ring from his left hand in his palm, turning his hand over slowly and letting his fingers fall apart and the gold metal fall into a drooling pool of dark swirls, making noises that would make an insomniac wake instantaneously in the deep of sleep, hitting the bottom as Greg's eyes became dark upon it.

"I don't see why I continue either."

Greg's eyes shot open instantly, listening to the faint whispers of grasses and leaves outside his window, the darkness of the abyssal night swooning him out of sub-consciousness. He looked around at the swirling, dancing shadows of the abyss, watching them as they danced around under his gaze, fleeting back into the crevices of the room in which he slept. His fingers slipped easily over to the nightstand and curled around the grip of a handgun, the cool metal sending an odd shake up his spine. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed quickly and jumped upright from the mattress, feet darting in silence to the only exit from the room.

He stood in his doorway, his heart steadfast in his chest. He stepped onto the pale grey carpet of the hall, heart beginning to thrum with each footstep, forefinger fast around the trigger of the silver pistol. Greg swallowed and put his right foot on the first step, finger twisting around the silver shine of the trigger, hugging it tighter between his knuckles. He looked over his shoulder briefly to make sure he would not catch his best friend and brother at gunpoint. His eyes darted to the knob of the open door, and he took in a paranoid breath, fear escalating in his lungs. He knew since Nick's door was open that he was asleep, because he had always left his door open when he was asleep, as a force of habit from when they were younger so Greg could run into Nick's arms when he had nightmares instead of the door, like Greg had done many times when his door was closed when they had first lived with Grissom when they were young, when Nick thought Greg was over his nightmares. But, Greg was still only five then. Nick only kept doors closed when he was awake, as to keep out any "unwanted guests" that may come in or out. Which also made Greg remember their teenage years when his brother would close the door to the bathroom and bedroom when he was inside to keep out said unwanted guests, which made Greg laugh when he had figured out babies didn't ever come from the ant farm Grissom had like Grissom had told him when he was five. Then, when he was in middle school, he had learned the truth, much to his demise… or joy, as it later turned out to be, he supposed. A soft laugh bubbled up in his throat but he choked it down as the paranoia ran itself head first back into Greg's gut. Greg's head turned to the archway that lead itself into the kitchen of the home, eyes dilated with the darkness and fear that ripped through him like a scythe to a field of tall grasses, right down to his every last fiber, that made a sick bile rise into his throat where laughter had once been. He took another step as the floorboards squealed softly under his step, raising a gentle finger to his lips to give them a silencing gesture, a sickening, paranoid rasp in his voice, but he was cut by short by shadows that swirled under his feet as he looked at the boards, watching the shadows fleet their way across the polished boards, smiling and whispering a chant of cries to him, then flit away across the walls and swirl on the ceiling with devious gleams of deeper shadows as they crossed other shadows, escaping portions of light that emanated from the kitchen.

Fingers gripped tightly around the silver pistol, he pointed it up and away from himself and he peeked through the archway. The light that overhang the center of the kitchen began to flicker and the window whipped open, sending in blasts of air that blew in pages and pages from the newspaper, blowing them around in a hurricane of black and white and semi-colored photos, which swirled around the light opposite the shadows that manifested a hand, taking the light between it's black fingertips, making the light flicker between the ever-manifesting shadows that began to lock itself around the ceiling. The winds blew faster around the edge of the kitchen, blowing Greg's curly brown and blond hair on his forehead, hashing a fear in his stomach that his feet would go darting off the ground in the fury of the winds. The light flickered between the clips of the fingers that curled around the frosted glass. A whip of wind and the misted glass came out in an explosion, shattering the bulb and the glass beneath it, the shards of glass flying around the room as the winds halted instantly for the shards to fly past, just breezing by his left cheek as he flinched back from the soundless detonation. The shadows retreated to the corners of the room, taking reign over the light that was once dutiful and suppressing as papers and leaves fluttered taciturnly to the ground as Greg looked up, and as a paper fell before his eyes, behind it, there, in the center of the kitchen, stood one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was tall, with glittering golden-red hair that shimmered in the distant shadow-light of far-gone streetlamps and the once harmonized light that dissipated moments ago by the reigning shadows. Her eyes were that luscious gray blue-blue that you thought only existed in edited model photos, that matched the skies of a semi-cloudy day where the sun had just gone its peak of morning dawn. She whipped her head toward him, her long strawberry blonde hair flipping over he shoulder, her ocean orbs of her eyes glittering with the distant light of far away streetlamps and the harsh neon glare that always littered the sky of suburban Las Vegas with its far off sibling of urban couture and neon relatives. Greg's instincts slowly kicked in and he drew the pistol forward to point at her. Her blue-gray eyes immediately lost their shimmer and she raised her hands as a warning not to shoot. She began forward, her hands up for him to stay still, her eyes darting from Greg's chocolate eyes to the tip of the silvery tip of the hand gun to his eyes once more, whispering to him in a almost sort of coo, saying, "Put that down, Gregory, or someone will get hurt."

"That's my intention," Greg said and his finger clicked back the hammer automatically and wrapped tighter around the glinting trigger. But his fingers began to unwind around the pistol, and he struggled to keep the gun between his fingers as it began slipping past his fingertips. The silver handgun began to quiver and then instantly shot from his hand, bolting across the room and into the awaiting, feminine hand that shot up and caught it by the grip in midair. She had caught it by the grip, the barrel forward and between Greg's eyes. She carefully eyes it and then whipped her head up, eyes on Greg, as was the barrel. "Tisk, tisk, Gregory." She laughed and then flung the trigger grip around her index finger just to flip it down and into her holster. He glared at her, his eyes seeming to go right through her, a pit opening in his stomach. "Who are you?" He asked, biting the corner of his lip to keep from lashing out somehow.

"Who am I?" She asked, a slight tilting laugh trembling in her voice. "Who are you?"

"It seems you already know that. Besides, you're the stranger standing in my kitchen," Greg spat, his voice seeming to dribble with an unexpected paranoia of future events, wishing he could stop time so whatever horrid occurrence wouldn't occur in the first place.

The woman stuck her tongue out a little and Greg gave her a confused look. "You're just too smart, Gregory. But, this is Nicholas's house," She gestured vaguely to the walls and assortment of things in the tiled kitchen. Greg just rolled his eyes.

"So you are here why…?" Greg asked simply. The woman, however, was looking around the kitchen at the fury of leaves and papers that littered the tile floor, mumbling to herself, "Oh, it appears I made a mess in your kitchen,." Greg gave a sigh at her offbeat oddity.

"Oh," she began as she noticed Greg stared at her semi-awkwardly. "I came here to give you this," she reached down to the second holster attached to her belt, pulling out an object that glinted in the light that flittered into the kitchen, Greg bracing himself on instinct, awaiting pain he knew would come. But, it didn't. He opened his eyes and saw the grip of a long, thin handgun held a foot from his face. He just stared dumb-founded at it, and she began moving it in a circle to make him snap from his oddities of trances. "Go on," she said to him, her voice light and gentle and just too sweet and friendly to be a stranger to him. "Take it." he reached out and grabbed the handle, running his fingers over the edge of wood on the side of the gun, running his fingers over the engraving in the sleek wood, his mouth opening into a little O shape. "How did you…?" The woman laughed gently, and Greg flitted his eyes up to her. "Who are you?"

"My name is Catherine Willows," she said, then paused.

"And just why do you have the Colt, Catherine?" Greg asked and she leaned in close, almost too close for comfort.

"It's a gift," she said. "I do believe you'll need it, just take my hint, hon," she gave him a wink and then stepped back, crinkling a piece of paper beneath the soles of her shoes. Greg's eyes opened wide and she hardly looked up at him when he did so.

"About your grand entrance…" Greg said and she glanced up to him, her eyes studying his as if she already had her answer in her head. "Just what does that make you? A ghost, perhaps?"

Her smile wasn't there as it hadn't been, and Greg had the feeling it wouldn't return. She stood up now from her kneeling position, her face serious. "I am a demon, Gregory." His hand immediately drew up the gun to the space between her eyes.

"My, my, Gregory, it appears you've made a boo-boo." His finger on the trigger and pulling it back, she raised her fingers and snapped loudly.

The car's engine roared gently, sending a gentle thrum through the car. Greg's eyes seemed to hang out the closed window, his reflection in the window appearing every time a dark figure passed, which his eyes always became glued to and then follow to the edge of the window as they drove by, then back to the other edge to catch another dark figure. His mind whirred over his past predicaments, the images of Catherine rippled through his mind as if she was a boulder that had fallen into a small pond that was his mind, sending waves of confusion pooling over the edges. Leaning against the window as he had been for the past few hours, then turned his head so he had the back of his head to the cool, bleak window that shown out to a foggy Nevada evening, his eyes facing Nick and sucking in eh glory that always made his stomach for reasons he never knew. Nick's chocolate eyes flitted to him, then back to the road as his hands seemed to grip the steering wheel tighter. "You okay, Greggo?" Greg's contempt "smile" cornered itself into a slight smirk as his brother called him one of the oh-so-familiar nicknames they had made for each other when they were still way past young.

"Yeah, just thinking…" Greg said, letting loose a little sigh and then sitting up, straightening himself and turning slightly to look at the dashed lines that littered the black, mountain road that made his fogged breath against the window flash with the little white dots, then back to black, and then to white once more.

"Yeah?" Nick asked, and Greg nodded to himself to let Nick continue without cutting him off, courtesy of the younger. "What about?" Greg shrugged half to himself, half to his reflection and wholly to his Texan brethren. Nick glanced to his brother, giving him what Greg called his I-know-all-and-I-know-you-are-definitely-lying look with the know-all smile that slid along with it. Greg gave a shaky sigh as he said, "The so called, according to movies, "forces of darkness." Nick lifted an eyebrow that Greg could see reflected in the windshield's glass as his own blue-green eyes darted to the windshield. "I met a demon last night." Nick's gaze became shifty and caught Greg's in the windshield reflection and Greg had to tuck his eyes away, due to the fact that his gaze always made his stomach swirl and his eyes dastardly read repetitive questions. "Do you know of a demon named… Willows?" Greg shifted his eyes toward Nick, watching as his brother shifted his jaw to the right, and Greg knew he was thinking. "She was tall, strawberry blond hair, blue eyes that you would think wouldn't exist," Greg tried to explain her, but he got tongue-tied for a loss of words. Nick left one hand on the wheel and leaned against the window next to him with his other arm's elbow, tilting his head in his hand to the side. Nick shook his head then kept on driving down the black mountain road. Greg returned his gaze to the outside that rippled through the window, the streetlamps of the suburban Las Vegas that cast over the trees from the town they had just left that ducked inside the valley that they both knew they'd have to leave.


End file.
